


fair game

by myrmidryad



Series: Ace Amis Week [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexual Courfeyrac, Asexual Grantaire, Asexual Jehan, Asexual Éponine, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Demisexual Character, Demisexual Cosette, Demisexual Marius, Friendship, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:44:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hang on, you can’t be asexual.” </p><p>Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Why not?” </p><p>“Because…you know.” Marius looked away and blushed. “You’re always having sex.”</p><p> </p><p>It takes Courfeyrac a while to figure out that he's asexual, but in the end it doesn't really make much difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fair game

**Author's Note:**

> (Occurs chronologically before Slam Night at the Musain.)
> 
> Title from the [song of the same name](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHQwwPMyrzU) by The Like, which contains these lyrics (which always make me think of Les Amis): but we're one big family/what's that darling?/who says family doesn't kiss?/oh, every gang's a bit incestuous.
> 
> So I started this during the actual Ace Amis Week, which was waaaaaaaaay back in September, and obviously that didn't really work out (mostly because this became a lot longer than anticipated), but it's Asexuality Awareness Week now, so I figured this was an excellent time to finish and post it!
> 
> Inspired by wereferre's [post](http://wereferre.tumblr.com/post/61068950970) about the idea of ace!Courfeyrac. I hope I've done it justice. :)

Thirteen years old and well aware that he was one of the better-looking boys in his class, Courfeyrac had been told by a friend that Suzanne Baudet had a crush on him. Flattered, curious, and maybe a little thrilled, he’d contrived to sit next to her in Maths when her usual partner was off sick and they’d started going out, as much as thirteen year-olds _could_ go out. 

He’d gone over to her house and she’d come over to his, and they’d hung out with their friends at the park and walked around town and slept in the same sleeping bag for a dare at someone’s birthday party. He’d kissed her because he knew she expected it, and hugged her because it felt wonderful, something he hadn’t even known he’d wanted. Holding her hand and being allowed to kiss her cheek to make her turn pink and smile made something inflate like a warm balloon in his chest. 

They’d broken up when he’d partnered up with Marcel instead of her for a project. Gotten back together a day later, and broken up again for good a week after that when Leon Rocher told her he had a crush on her, and he was apparently the better option because he was in the year above and on the football team. Courfeyrac had been heartbroken for maybe two weeks, and then moved on. 

 

At fourteen, he’d lost his virginity (in his eyes, at least) in a shocking blowjob at a party at someone’s house. He’d been locked in the cupboard under the stairs with Floriane (who’d had way too much to drink) and she’d kissed him sloppily before dropping to her knees and undoing his jeans. It was _awful_. He’d had too much to drink as well, so it felt weird rather than good, and he couldn’t get decently hard, and she’d accidentally scraped her teeth along the bottom and that had _hurt_. 

But if he’d told her to stop she would have cried or something (Floriane was a crier when she was drunk) and that had been the last thing he wanted. She’d stopped after maybe two minutes and sat back, breathing heavily and swaying in the dark. He’d tucked himself back in hurriedly and knelt down to kiss her, remembering too late exactly where her mouth had been. It was the right thing to do in any case – she’d responded enthusiastically, and when the cupboard was opened five minutes later, she was in his lap with her hands under his shirt. 

Her friends had shrieked and dragged her away, and the boys had congratulated him loudly, demanding details and dirt. He’d lied through his teeth for Floriane’s sake – she’d been fantastic, it was better than porn – and he’d sneaked out to stand in the garden for a while. It was rare that he sought out solitude, but sometimes it was necessary. Like when everything got shaken up and he needed to take a moment to let the dust settle again. 

He’d _given_ a proper blowjob before he’d received one, when he was fifteen and hopelessly in love with Nicolas Allard from _church_ , of all places. They’d had a very exciting, very scary, and _very_ secret relationship that lasted for an impressive six months before Nicolas’ parents found out and stopped it. 

According to Facebook, Nicolas had a girlfriend now, and still listed his religion as Catholic. 

Courfeyrac’s was Pastafarian. 

 

Courfeyrac at sixteen was vaguely aware that he approached potential relationships from a slightly different angle that most people he knew. Alain had started pursuing Nicole because she was ‘hot’, and half the boys he knew had agreed at least once that, given the chance, they’d bang Aline in a second. 

Most of his friends thought he was mad when he fell head over heels for Emilie, because she had a tendency to lash out when teased, had a bit of a stutter, and didn’t have many friends. She rejected him flat out when he first tried to ask her out, convinced he was playing a trick on her. He tried again, because she had impossible handwriting, could be obnoxiously clever, and had a birthmark on her neck that he was dying to kiss. She said yes the second time, ready to be angry if he revealed the whole thing to be a joke, but he just grinned and asked if he could hold her hand. 

She kissed him first, and he actually got in his first real fight when a boy in their year said that looking at them made him feel sick. He was sent home, but she was suspended, because while he’d sat there in shock she’d stood up and thrown her apple at the offender, and when he’d spat at her in retaliation, she’d scratched him across the face and left four deep marks. Courfeyrac had only just gotten involved in time to stop the boy hitting her back. 

She was the one to bring up sex first, nervously and very hesitantly at her house. “My parents won’t get back till six,” she started casually, settling against his side on the sofa. “We can do whatever we want.” They made out for a while, which Courfeyrac was more than happy about (kissing happened to be one of his favourite things, ditto the cuddling that usually came with it), and then she started taking their clothes off. 

He caught her wrist as she was about to unhook her bra, meaning to ask if she was sure. What came out was, “What if your parents come home?” 

She hesitated. “We’d better go upstairs.” 

Courfeyrac was secretly hugely relieved when it turned out that neither of them had any form of protection. “We can’t,” he insisted. “What if you get pregnant?” 

She looked embarrassed and miserable, so he kissed her over and over until she was smiling, still a little reluctantly, and then they set about learning the logistics of trying to get each other off without exchanging any bodily fluids. It wasn’t an experience Courfeyrac could look back on without wincing – they’d both been terrible, but at least they’d been terrible together. 

 

Courfeyrac at seventeen _loved_ house parties. There were no clubs or bars in town, so the only parties they had were at each other’s houses, and he couldn’t imagine any better way to spend an evening than getting drunk and happy with his friends, especially when they got touchy. 

“Boys never like cuddling afterwards,” Aimée complained, wrapping her arms around Courfeyrac’s waist from behind. 

“That’s bullshit!” Julien cried, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. “You’re just fucking the wrong boys!” 

“Don’t listen to him.” Courfeyrac pretended to put his hands over her ears, making her giggle. “He knows nothing!” 

“And you’re such an expert,” she teased. 

“I’m alright,” he grinned, turning round properly and draping his arms over her shoulders. 

“Oi!” Paul shouted, coming in with a bottle of half-drunk wine. “Enough of that! Christ, do you ever stop?” 

Courfeyrac knew he wasn’t serious, and he snagged the bottle with a wink, taking a swig and grimacing involuntarily at the taste. “Only when I’m asleep.” 

“A game!” Chantal looked up from where she was making out with her boyfriend on the sofa. They were both a little bleary-eyed, and Courfeyrac laughed at the sight. “Let’s play a game!” 

They played flip-sip-strip and Courfeyrac ended up in nothing but his boxers before very long, perfectly comfortable as he was, sharing another bottle of foul wine with Paul, who was shirtless and barefoot next to him. 

“Girls are objectively pretty though, y’know?” Chantal said, curled around Jean like a plant. “I can look at a girl and say they’re hot without wanting to sleep with them.” 

“See, I don’t see that with guys at all!” Julien said, far too loudly. Courfeyrac threw a bottle cap at him and whooped when it hit him in the centre of his forehead. “What the hell?” 

“Keep it down, moron,” Paul said. “You’re always so _loud_.” 

“You can look at another guy and say he’s good-looking though, right?” Chantal pressed. “Objectively speaking.” 

Julien pulled a face and Courfeyrac interjected. “Of course we can. But if we do, people think it’s weird. Girls are allowed to complement each other all the time on how they look. Boys don’t do that so much.” 

“It’s gay,” Julien confirmed. 

“It’s stupid.” Courfeyrac sat back and took the wine bottle from Paul’s offered hand. “Anyway, I think boys are just as sexy as girls. Everyone’s human.” 

There was a moment of silence and exchanged looks. Courfeyrac drank and pretended to be above it all. 

“So you’re…what?” Paul asked finally. “Bisexual?” 

“I guess,” Courfeyrac shrugged. 

“Kiss a boy then,” Aimée challenged, a wicked gleam in her eye. 

“Who?” Courfeyrac played along, leaning forward and grinning. He didn’t mind the idea of kissing anyone in the room, truth be told – they were all his friends. 

“I _dare_ you,” Chantal said, grinning, “to kiss either Paul or Julien. Your choice.” 

“ _Their_ choice.” Courfeyrac looked at Paul. “You mind?” 

Paul hesitated. “I’m not into that.” 

Courfeyrac shrugged and took another drink. “It’s just a dare. I _promise_ I don’t want to fuck you,” he added with a laugh. Paul smiled reluctantly, and Julien jumped in. 

“Paul, I dare you to kiss Courfeyrac. What?” He raised his eyebrows when they all stared at him. “Better him than me.” 

“Rude,” Courfeyrac chided. “I’m a great kisser, aren’t I, Aimée?” 

She laughed and shrugged, coy. “You’re not bad.” 

“See? _Glowing_ recommendations. Come on then,” he smiled at Paul and handed him the bottle. Paul took a deep breath, followed by a deep drink, and then leaned forward. 

It was nice. Better than nice. Courfeyrac shifted closer, wanting more, and they both laughed when Chantal shouted, “Tongues or it doesn’t count!” 

They both lifted their middle fingers to her as Courfeyrac opened his mouth against Paul’s, and Paul’s tongue hesitantly slid against his. Julien made a retching noise, but Aimée wolf-whistled and Jean cheered. Courfeyrac tilted his head and kissed him harder, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. Paul’s skin was warm and smooth under his palm, and Courfeyrac wondered what it would be like to see all of him, to be able to do this all the time the way Chantal and Jean did. To be able to curl around him and kiss his shoulders and neck, laugh against his skin and make Paul laugh with him. To be close to him, to hold him and _know_ him, every part of him. 

Paul made a small noise and pulled away. Courfeyrac opened his eyes and saw that his lips were wet and parted slightly before he turned to the others and raised an eyebrow. “Does that count?” 

“It’ll do,” Chantal said flippantly, and they all laughed. 

Courfeyrac sat back and wiped his mouth theatrically. “See?” he said. “Nothing to it.” 

His sudden crush faded as quickly as it had come, and Courfeyrac was just glad that nothing was weird between them afterwards. That would have been unbearable. 

 

“Christ, you’re tall.” Courfeyrac stared up at one of his new flatmates, an Asian boy with glasses and a friendly smile. 

He laughed and held out his hand, which Courfeyrac shook. “Actually, I’m Combeferre. And that’s Enjolras.” He nodded to someone behind Courfeyrac. 

“Hi.” A blonde boy (thankfully not as tall, but still with a couple of good inches on Courfeyrac) staggered over. Courfeyrac couldn’t see his face – it was obscured by the pile of boxes in the guy’s arms – and he immediately reached up to grab the top one so he could get a better look. It revealed a good-looking face with a frazzled expression, which adopted a surprisingly lovely smile when he saw Courfeyrac. “Thanks.” 

Courfeyrac hefted the box and whistled. “What the hell have you got in these? Bricks?” 

“Books.” Enjolras jerked his head to flick a strand of hair out of his face. “ _His_ books,” he added, giving Combeferre a dirty look. 

Combeferre grinned unapologetically. “Good thing there’s a lift, right?” 

Courfeyrac laughed, and they went upstairs together, leaving the doors to their rooms open so they could shout to each other as they unpacked. Courfeyrac’s mum hadn’t been able to get off work, but his dad had driven him up and left again after helping him get his stuff inside, apologising for not being able to stay longer. Combeferre and Enjolras had turned up at the same time, accompanied by Combeferre’s mother and older brother, and no one from Enjolras’ family. 

They’d emailed each other, so he knew that Enjolras and Combeferre had been friends for years and lived in Paris their whole lives. Enjolras was taking Political Science, and Combeferre was a medical student. Courfeyrac was the odd one out – he’d only been to Paris once, on a school trip – and he found himself asking questions faster than they could answer them. 

“You’re local,” he said as they unloaded the kitchen stuff. “You must know all the good things to do, right? Places to go, people to meet, that sort of thing?” 

“You’re a party person, aren’t you?” Enjolras sighed, and Courfeyrac grinned. 

“I’m not denying it. But seriously, we should do something tonight! Take me out and show me a good time,” he teased. “I’m new, and I’m easily impressed.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Combeferre, who snorted. 

“There’re a couple of bars we know,” he said, glancing over at Enjolras, who shrugged, levering something gently out of a box. 

“Excellent,” Courfeyrac nodded, then gaped as he saw what Enjolras had revealed. “Fuck, did you raid a coffee shop or something?” It was the swankiest coffee machine he’d seen outside of a café. 

“If you’re going to make coffee, it should be done right,” Combeferre said firmly, going over to help Enjolras put it gently on the counter. 

“I guess I can’t argue with that.” Courfeyrac stared. “You need to teach me how to use this monster.” 

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras said, brushing his hands off with a satisfied smile. “I thought you wanted to go out?” 

By the end of the night, Courfeyrac had been to several bars, bought several rounds of shots for all of them, helped Combeferre coax Enjolras onto the dance floor (an almost impossible feat, Combeferre told him later, obviously impressed), and made four new friends in the form of a group of American exchange students. They came back to the new flat and one of them – Kathryn, Courfeyrac thought – taught them a drinking game that involved a deck of cards, a pint glass, and a series of ridiculous reactions to each revealed card. They had appalling French, but they managed to understand each other well enough, and when they left (sometime around three or four), Courfeyrac slumped against Enjolras and pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek. 

“Y’know, you’re actually fantastic. Both of you,” he added, looking round at Combeferre, who was still sprawled in one of the chairs, a slightly dazed look on his face (he’d lost the last round of the game and had to drink the dirty pint, and he’d handled it amazingly well compared to the two Americans who had lost the other rounds – they’d needed to throw up afterwards). “You’re fan _tastic_.” 

Enjolras laughed, putting an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist to hold him up. “Thanks. We…we appreciate that. Right?” 

Combeferre made an affirmative humming noise and closed his eyes. “Everything feels like it’s flying upwards,” he said. “’m not sure if I like it.” 

Courfeyrac giggled. “I’m so glad you’re not scary or weird. In a bad way, I mean.” 

“So you’re saying…” Enjolras let go of him and sank very carefully into the chair next to Combeferre. “We’re scary and weird in a good way.” 

“Yeah!” Courfeyrac eyed the last inch of vodka in the bottle on the table and decided _no_. “Like…when you got them talking about the ‘merican healthcare system. Amazing.” He swept some of the cards aside and sat on the table, crossing his legs and holding onto his feet, head spinning a little. “Fucking amazing.” 

“Why?” Combeferre asked, not opening his eyes. 

“What’s so amazing about saying the truth?” Enjolras nodded. 

Combeferre frowned. “Your opinions.” 

“It’s the truth,” Enjolras said sharply. “I’ve got the stististics… _stat_ istics to prove it.” 

“You said them already.” Courfeyrac waved a hand in front of him to regain his attention (having Enjolras’ attention was strangely electrifying). “And I mean it’s amazing because…I s’pose because no one I know does that.” 

“People are afraid of looking uncool,” Combeferre murmured, boneless in his chair, long legs spread under the table and fingertips almost brushing the floor. 

“And what about you?” Enjolras hadn’t had as much to drink as the rest of them, and his gaze was still surprisingly clear and intense. Courfeyrac stilled as he met it and cocked his head. 

“Me?” 

“What’re your opinions on the matter?” 

Courfeyrac sucked in a deep breath. “I…don’t have one yet,” he decided. “I don’t know enough about it. Based off what you’ve said, I agree with you, but I’d prob’ly have to do…whatsit, research of my own before I’d get as loud. Vocal, I mean. Vocal. You know what I mean.” 

“Well said,” Combeferre sighed, opening his eyes and blinking behind his glasses. “I’m going to bed.” He didn’t move, and Courfeyrac grinned at Enjolras, who was stifling a smile. 

“You want some help?” he asked innocently, getting off the table. Combeferre sighed again and held out his arms. 

“Just for this bit.” 

Enjolras took one arm, Courfeyrac the other, and together they pulled Combeferre to his feet. 

“You alright up there?” Courfeyrac asked cheerfully. “Getting altitude sickness?” 

“’m not that tall,” Combeferre muttered, swaying slightly before he started walking towards his bedroom. “Night.” 

“Five euro says he sleeps on the floor,” Courfeyrac said as the door closed. Enjolras snorted. 

“I’ll take that bet. You don’t know Combeferre.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to bed too.” 

“See you tomorrow then,” Courfeyrac said, making for his own bedroom. On his own, he took a moment to smile to himself, head buzzing pleasantly. So far, so good – he was definitely glad he’d found these two on the housing website. They fitted well together. 

 

“Look, I agree with you on the whole rating thing,” Louis said, gesturing the way he did when he’d had a bit to drink. “That’s gross. But everyone has a type, y’know?” 

Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “Do they?” 

“Sure,” Louis shrugged. Next to him, Enjolras and Combeferre were listening intently, but further down the table Musichetta was still arguing ferociously with two of the other guys who’d turned up to the meeting. 

(“How would you feel if I leaned out of a car and rated you out of ten?” 

“Flattered!” 

“Yeah, maybe the first couple of times. Then imagine it happens every time you go out, no matter what you’re wearing or how you’re feeling, and they yell that at you as if they had the right to judge your appearance, as if you’d gone out purely to get rated by a couple of assholes? And what about if they give you a shitty rating? Not so flattering then, is it?”) 

“Like,” Louis continued, “I have a thing for redheads, y’know? And some people have a thing for green eyes or big thighs. It’s just personal preference. _Everyone’s_ got those.” 

“I don’t,” Courfeyrac shrugged. Louis raised a sceptical eyebrow. 

“Bullshit. If I showed you a line-up of gorgeous ladies –” 

“And gentlemen,” Courfeyrac added, grinning. Louis rolled his eyes, but nodded. 

“Fine, and gentlemen, you’d choose out of those the ones you were most attracted to, and that’d be because of your personal preferences.” 

“I wouldn’t.” Courfeyrac shook his head. “And not just because the whole line-up thing is too much like the rating thing,” he added. “I mean, I can’t choose on appearance alone. It’s impossible.” 

“Fine, you get to know them first,” Louis snorted. “They’re all fucking lovely. Then you’d base your choice on personal preference.” 

“It’d be preference of their personalities, not their appearance though,” Courfeyrac argued. 

Louis sighed, frustrated. “You’re just being difficult. Come on, everyone’s got the ability to look at a person objectively and say whether or not they’re sexy.” 

“I…” Courfeyrac frowned. “I don’t.” 

“Of course you do! You sleep with loads of people!” 

“I don’t sleep with loads of people!” Courfeyrac protested. “Not _that_ many,” he amended a second later when Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Anyway, it’s not based on sex appeal.” 

“What else is there?” Louis frowned. “I mean, if you’re basing this purely on appearance.” 

Courfeyrac pulled a face and tangled a hand in his hair. “No, what’s the thing where you can like something because it’s just pretty? Like with art and stuff?” 

“Aesthetics?” Combeferre suggested, and Courfeyrac snapped his finger, sitting up straight. 

“Yes, that. Appearance is based on aesthetic appeal too.” 

“That’s still sex appeal!” Louis argued, and Courfeyrac laughed. 

“No it isn’t! You can look at a kid and say it’s beautiful without wanting to shag it!” 

Louis blanched. “Ew.” 

“Yeah, okay, probably not the best analogy,” Courfeyrac allowed. “But you get the point, right? I can look at someone and say they’re aesthetically pleasing.” 

“But then you fuck them because of the sex appeal,” Louis insisted. “Not because they’re ‘aesthetically pleasing’. And besides, there’s overlap, right? Like, aren’t symmetrical faces meant to be eye-catching? We’re programmed to find them sexy or something, right?” 

“I don’t want to have sex with someone because of their face though,” Courfeyrac said, trying to understand and explain his thoughts at the same time. “And some of that stuff is societally based, like what’s currently thought to be beautiful. Right now, skinny is meant to be sexy, right? And that’s just complete bullshit!” 

“So you’re saying you’d sleep with someone who didn’t fit those rules?” Louis asked, seeming to be genuinely curious. “Someone conventionally ugly?” 

“If I liked them, sure,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “But I’ve got to _like_ them. It’s more…for me, anyway, it’s more about appreciation of what they’ve got. Everyone’s got something, so going back to the line-up idea, it just doesn’t work. People are too different. It’s like comparing cake to pie. They’re both round, but they’re too different to properly compare – they tick different boxes. One person’s got red hair,” he gave Louis a significant look. “Another’s got beautiful eyes, another’s got a gorgeous smile. And then there’s the stuff that makes people attractive beyond their looks – a good laugh goes a long way. A sense of humour in general. Their attitude, their…” He gesticulated with his hands, searching for the words. “Their themness.” 

“Their personality?” Combeferre suggested, amused. 

Courfeyrac shook his head, frowning. “No, you can’t get a handle on someone’s personality till you get to know them a bit better. I mean…their first impression, I guess. It’s not sex appeal. It’s their _themness_ , the whole combination. That’s what makes someone immediately attractive.” 

Afterwards, he walked back to their apartment with Enjolras and Combeferre either side of him, and they noticed when he was quieter than usual. “Everything alright?” Enjolras asked. 

“Fine.” Courfeyrac smiled at them, reassuring them. “Just thinking. I think that went pretty well though, don’t you?” 

“I think Chetta scared off the assholes very efficiently,” Combeferre said dryly, and Courfeyrac laughed. 

“It was good,” Enjolras nodded slowly. “Next time will be better.” 

“And we need to find a decent place to meet,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “And a name. So far we’ve got no decent names for this. I’m warning you; if we don’t get one soon, I’ll start calling it Jokers for Justice.” 

“How inspiring,” Enjolras snorted. “Why don’t you come up with something then?” 

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

 

 “Who’re we waiting for?” Enjolras asked Combeferre, who consulted his phone. 

“Just Chetta now, I think.” 

“She said she was bringing someone new,” Courfeyrac reminded them, looking over from his conversation with Joly and Bossuet. 

“Think we should get started?” Enjolras looked around the room, and Courfeyrac nodded. 

“Go for it.” 

The door opened just before Enjolras stood up, and they looked round as Musichetta came in, leading two boys. One was tall, with dark skin and big boots, grin on his face. The other was shorter, with dark curls and a tattered green hoodie. “This is Bahorel and Grantaire,” Musichetta announced. 

“Hey, I know you!” Courfeyrac realised, pointing at Bahorel. “You smashed that guy in the face with a tray!” 

The other guy – Grantaire – laughed, and Bahorel shrugged, looking slightly sheepish. “Guilty as charged.” 

“Why?” Theo shouted, leaning his chair back on two legs. 

“He was being an asshole,” Bahorel said simply, looking around the room. “There are more of you than I thought.” 

“Still not enough girls,” Musichetta sighed, getting a chair and setting it next to Bossuet. “I feel woefully underrepresented in here.” 

“We’ll work on that,” Courfeyrac told her, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Flirting with them doesn’t count as recruitment.” 

“Hey, it worked for Hannah!” he protested. 

Hannah snorted. “Don’t kid yourself – I came for the free food.” 

“There’s free food?” Grantaire said, his first words. “Where?” 

“Afterwards,” Combeferre said firmly. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves properly?” 

“Alright.” Bahorel grabbed a chair at Musichetta’s encouragement and sat with the back between his legs. “I’m Bahorel, third year History student, soon to be broke and probably unemployed.” He nudged Grantaire, who slumped in his chair and pulled a face. 

“Grantaire, former Art student, currently employed at a bookshop you’ve probably never heard of.” 

Combeferre leaned forward instantly. “Which one?” 

Grantaire blinked. “Um. The Tippling Philosopher? It used to be a bar.” 

“It still has the taps on the counter,” Combeferre nodded, satisfied. 

“Combeferre knows every bookshop in Paris, possibly every bookshop in France,” Courfeyrac told them. 

“I’m impressed.” Grantaire smiled, just slightly. “It’ll probably shut down before next year if some more people don’t find it.” 

“We should get started,” Enjolras said pointedly, and Combeferre sat back with a nod. 

Bahorel was as tactile as Courfeyrac, and just as loud and quick to laughter. He’d bring someone else with him next time, he told them. A friend from work he knew would be interested. Enjolras liked Bahorel, Courfeyrac could tell – it was difficult not to, really. He was interested in their aims (they were currently figuring out the logistics of a counter-protest to a protest against same-sex marriage planned to take place in a month’s time), and eager to learn more. 

Grantaire was more of an enigma. He’d skirted questions on the nature of his own opinions, deflecting with sarcasm and dry humour. He didn’t seem actively opposed though, and Courfeyrac had caught him frowning thoughtfully at several of the things people had said. 

“We still need to figure out what we’re going to do when we graduate,” Courfeyrac reminded Enjolras afterwards, taking a cake from the box Joly had brought (they took it in turns to provide food). “Every community space I’ve looked at is overpriced to the extreme.” 

Bahorel overheard and came over, curious. “Why can’t you use the university buildings?” 

“We’re not technically a university organisation,” Enjolras explained. “We’re only allowed to use this room because the majority of us are students, but that won’t last much longer.” 

“Know any cheap rooms we can use?” Courfeyrac asked, only part-joking. 

Bahorel actually pulled a considering expression. “Not off the top of my head, but…R! R, come here!” 

“I’m not your pet dog,” Grantaire complained, slouching over with a sandwich in each hand. “What, you badly-mannered ingrate?” 

“These guys need a new place to meet. How often do you meet?” he asked suddenly. “Chetta didn’t say.” 

“Once a week, usually,” Enjolras told him. “Unless we’re working up to something, then sometimes more often.” 

Bahorel turned to Grantaire. “Any ideas?” 

Grantaire took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly. “Maybe,” he said after a moment. “You want cheap or free? Parks are good for summer if the weather’s good.” 

“Something more like this would be better,” Courfeyrac said apologetically. Grantaire nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. 

“How about the Corinthe? I ever taken you there?” he asked Bahorel, who shook his head. 

“Never heard of it.” 

“Shit food,” Grantaire laughed. “I mean really god-awful. But there’s a room upstairs I know Madame Hucheloup doesn’t use. It’s a bit small, and apparently it gets hot as hell in there in summer, but it might do. She won’t charge much if I ask her first. Plus, there’s booze.” He grinned at Bahorel. “God knows I’ll need some if I come to one of these meetings again.” 

“Why?” Enjolras asked, frowning. 

Grantaire waved a hand. “Forget about it, I’m just being a dick. You want me to ask for you?” 

“One of us should go with you,” Enjolras said, still looking a little annoyed by Grantaire’s booze comment. “What times are good for you?” 

“I’m free tomorrow afternoon.” 

“I’m not.” Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac, who nodded. 

“I can do that, no problem. Can I have your number?” he asked Grantaire. “You too, actually,” he added, glancing at Bahorel. “Helps to have you guys in my phone if you’re coming back.” 

“I’m definitely coming back,” Bahorel grinned. “I’ve never been in a _counter_ -protest before.” 

“Bring your friend next time,” Courfeyrac said as he put Bahorel’s number into his phone. “What’s their name?” 

“Feuilly.” 

“Can’t wait to meet him.” 

 

Musichetta brought Bahorel and Grantaire. Bahorel brought Feuilly, and Grantaire brought Jehan, who had a friend called Éponine who worked at the Café Musain, which Grantaire had also introduced them to. Between him and Bahorel, a whole new swathe of the city seemed to have opened up before them, and before it became normal and routine, it was intoxicating. 

Courfeyrac turned up unannounced at Grantaire’s apartment one day, knowing that Grantaire had the day off. He’d been hoping to get Grantaire to show him something new, but he forgot that as soon as Grantaire opened the door. He looked terrible, and Courfeyrac frowned. “Hey.” 

“What’re you doing here?” Grantaire asked, sounding as though he’d either just woken up, or been crying. “Not to say your company isn’t always a pleasure.” 

“I try,” Courfeyrac smiled. “I was going to see if you wanted to come out, but…you don’t look so great,” he said apologetically. “Are you okay?” 

Grantaire heaved a massive sigh and closed his eyes. “I’m magnificent. I am resplendent in happiness and bright with vitality.” 

And a little drunk, though Courfeyrac was tactful enough not to say so. Instead he leaned against the doorframe and pursed his lips. “Yeah, you’re a right ray of sunshine. You want a sunbather to accompany that glow you’re throwing off?” 

Grantaire’s lips quirked and he stood back. “Be my guest. Wine?” 

At ten in the morning? “Sure, pour me a glass.” 

Grantaire smiled slightly and led the way through to the kitchen. “If you can find a glass, you can use it.” 

“See, your impromptu treasure hunts are one of the many reasons I love you,” Courfeyrac said, instead of commenting on the pitiful state of Grantaire’s kitchen. He searched through a couple of cupboards and gave up. “Fuck it, I’ll drink from the bottle.” 

“Good man.” Grantaire’s smile grew a little with each of Courfeyrac’s acceptances. “Come into my boudoir.” 

Grantaire’s bedroom was his living room; the camp-bed he slept on was folded in half against the wall, and the sofa had pillows instead of cushions. He fell onto the sofa with a sigh and pinched an unlit cigarette between his lips as he handed Courfeyrac the half-empty bottle of wine. He took a swig as Grantaire lit up and handed it back once he’d exhaled a long plume of smoke. Grantaire took two gulps and sighed again. 

“Not to be blunt,” Courfeyrac said slowly, “but you seem sad.” 

“What happened to bathing in my fiery celestial glow?” Grantaire asked sarcastically. 

“You glow more like the moon than the sun at present.” 

“Ah, how fitting. I am incapable of emitting, so I can only ever reflect. I cannot produce, and therefore I imitate, and imitate poorly at that. I might as well hide from the sun and remain a lightless lump of rock, forever circling that which I can never attain.” 

Courfeyrac occasionally wished he had a recorder to capture Grantaire’s oddly beautiful turns of phrase. “What aren’t you capable of producing?” 

“Anything of worth,” Grantaire snorted, chasing smoke with wine. “I should’ve warned you I’m unpleasant company at the moment.” 

“Anything I can do?” 

“I’m not in the mood to be cheered up, Courfeyrac.” 

“Then I won’t try,” Courfeyrac said simply. “What’s that thing Jehan always says? Emotions have to be experienced to their fullest depths or something?” 

“The twenty-first century has produced a pure Romantic in Jean Prouvaire.” Grantaire closed his eyes and offered the bottle to Courfeyrac again. 

“Well if you don’t want to be cheered up, I won’t try to cheer you up. But I don’t think you want to be alone, or you wouldn’t have let me in.” 

“How astute you are.” 

“I could’ve been a great detective,” Courfeyrac agreed. “Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me.” 

“That so? Deduce my malady then, Irene Adler.” 

“Irene Adler?” 

“Only person to ever beat Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Of course.” Courfeyrac paused and frowned at Grantaire, trying to at least play along with the detective angle. “You seemed fine on Tuesday when I saw you last. You were online last night, so you didn’t go out. Was it something online?” 

“Not bad,” Grantaire sounded amused, and he took another deep drag of his cigarette. “Go on.” 

“I’d need your internet history to figure out more.” Courfeyrac took another drink (Grantaire didn’t look like he needed any more). 

“Well you’re certainly not getting that.” Grantaire held out his hand for the bottle, and Courfeyrac gave it to him. 

“Want to help me out a little then?” Courfeyrac said lightly, settling further into the sofa and pressing their shoulders together gently. 

Grantaire sighed. “It’s nothing, I’m just being a moody bastard. Idiots online – you know how it is.” 

“All too well,” Courfeyrac nodded. 

“You know what’s shit?” Grantaire said suddenly, opening his eyes to glare at the wall opposite. 

“What?” 

“The general assumption that love equals sex. It’s just…it’s stupid.” He made a disgruntled sound and closed his eyes again. “Fuck, forget it. _I’m_ stupid.” 

“You’re not,” Courfeyrac nudged him. “Besides, I get that.” 

“Really?” Grantaire sounded sceptical, and Courfeyrac nodded, suddenly passionate. 

“It pisses me off too sometimes. You know how every relationship _has_ to be sexualised or romanticised? Especially opposite-sex ones. It’s almost impossible to find a story where the main characters are a man and a woman and they aren’t attracted to each other. I love subtext as much as the next guy, but I just want more _friends_ , y’know? And I don’t get why everything has to end in sex, like a relationship isn’t valid without it. It’s stupid, and it’s completely unrealistic. Like that old Harry and Sally crap that men and women can’t be friends – I can be friends with women and not want to sleep with them! All guys can. It’s not difficult, for God’s sake, and I don’t get why that’s so hard to understand.” 

Grantaire stared at him. “Wow. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.” 

Courfeyrac laughed self-consciously. “Me neither. I guess it’s just been building up for a while.” 

“You sound a bit like Jehan,” Grantaire smirked. “Less poetic, but it’s hard to be more poetic than an actual poet.” 

“You manage sometimes,” Courfeyrac pointed out. 

“Sure I do.” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Seriously though, you should speak up about that stuff more. God knows we could use the help.” 

“We?” 

“Me and Jehan. Oh, and Éponine, I forget about her sometimes.” 

“You’re…” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “You’re asexual too?” 

“You’re surprised.” 

“You never said, that’s all.” 

“It never came up.” 

“Yet you complain about a lack of voices,” Courfeyrac snorted, and Grantaire smiled reluctantly. 

“You said it better anyway. And besides, it’s not like it’ll matter if I say anything.” 

“No?” 

“Please.” Grantaire laughed humourlessly. “The fact that I know two other aces in person is a miracle in itself. There are barely any of us, and nothing is going to change to please a minority so small it wouldn’t even show up on a pie chart.” 

“You have to at least try,” Courfeyrac insisted. “Once you get people to understand –” 

“Oh, leave it,” Grantaire sighed, waving a hand. “Don’t get all serious on me now.” 

“Fine.” Courfeyrac took the bottle from him and took a drink. “I’m just saying.” 

“People almost never understand though,” Grantaire said after a moment. “I mean…because so many people _are_ sexual, asking them to imagine _not_ being sexual is like asking them to imagine what it’s like to have wings. You can guess, but you can’t really understand.” 

“I understand,” Courfeyrac muttered, taking another drink. 

“Really?” Grantaire swiped the bottle from him and poured the remainder of the wine into his mouth. “Can you imagine being in love with someone, being in a relationship with them, even, and not wanting to express that through sex?” 

Courfeyrac frowned. “I…but if it makes them happy –” 

“Not so easy to imagine, huh?” 

“But it’s not about sex when I’m in a relationship,” Courfeyrac protested. At Grantaire’s raised eyebrows, he sat forward, trying to explain. “It’s about love, right? Why can’t I express that by finding out about what they like, and making them laugh and watching movies with them and just…you know, _being_ with them. What does sex have to do with that?” 

Grantaire sat forward too, a strange expression on his face. “And what about one-night stands?” 

“I like connecting with people,” Courfeyrac said quietly, suddenly confused. “It’s not about sex. It’s about getting to know them.” 

“You don’t get to know someone through a hook-up,” Grantaire laughed. 

“Not like that,” Courfeyrac argued. “I mean getting to know what they like and…you know, making them feel good. And making both of you feel good. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy sex or anything – it’s fine, y’know? Great. But it’s not the be-all end-all. It’s not the point, is what I’m saying. It’s just a piece in a bigger puzzle, and you don’t _need_ it, not really.” 

“Have you ever had a non-sexual relationship?” Grantaire asked, sounding curious. 

Courfeyrac shook his head. “I’d like to, though,” he realised. “As long as the other person was cool with it, obviously.” 

“And if they weren’t?” 

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Fine by me. You can learn a lot about a person by what they’re like in the bedroom.” 

“God, I’ve never met anyone as ready to please as you.” 

“I like making people happy,” Courfeyrac sighed. “What’s wrong with that?” 

Grantaire bumped their shoulders together and smiled. “Nothing. You want to go out?” 

Courfeyrac brightened immediately. “Do you?” 

“Yeah, I think so. Something about seeing the eternally upbeat Courfeyrac complain about something personal as opposed to political has lightened my mood.” 

“Glad my pain could be of service,” Courfeyrac said dryly, getting to his feet as Grantaire did. 

“Just imagine how happy you’d make me if you cried,” Grantaire snickered, and Courfeyrac swatted his shoulder. 

“Charming, just lovely. I feel so valued.” 

Grantaire hugged him suddenly, and after a moment of shock, Courfeyrac hugged him back tightly. It was a well-known fact that he was always up for a hug. “You’re valued,” Grantaire mumbled into his shoulder. “Sorry I’m such a miserable dick.” 

Courfeyrac squeezed him harder and pressed a kiss to the side of his head when he started to pull away. “You’re so much more than a miserable dick,” he said, grinning, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome. What’re you going to show me then, capital R?” 

“What are you in the mood for? It’s Thursday, isn’t it – are you hungry?” 

“I could be if it takes half an hour or so to get to wherever we go.” 

“In which case, I will take you to a particular food market where we can sample the delicacies without spending more than ten euros between us.” 

Courfeyrac laughed as they left the filthy apartment behind. “Is that a promise?” 

“A guarantee, or your money back!” 

 

“It’s like coffee,” Éponine said. “I’m not into coffee, so I don’t drink it – I think it tastes disgusting. But other people like coffee, and that’s fine, I don’t give a shit. It’s when they try and get _me_ to drink coffee when they _know_ I don’t like it that pisses me off. Like putting coffee in other drinks to trick me into it, or shit like that. And like…at the end of the day, it’s just coffee! I don’t get why they make such a big deal of it!” 

Courfeyrac leaned over and grinned, fingertips touching her cup. “Does that mean you don’t want your caramel latte? Because it looks delicious to me.” 

Éponine snorted and swatted him away. “Back off, the latte is mine. Anyway, why all the questions?” 

“I guess I’m just trying to figure something out.” 

“Tell me you’re not adopting asexuality as one of your ‘causes’.” She made air-quotes with her fingers and rolled her eyes. 

“Minority representation is kind of what we’re all about,” he reminded her. 

She sighed and sipped her latte. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“And Jehan always brings it up at the meetings!” Éponine had come to one, decided it wasn’t for her, and never come back. 

“A girl can’t make a joke? Jesus.” 

“Oh.” Courfeyrac pulled a face. “Sorry.” 

“What’s up with you? Why the sudden interest in my non-existent sex life?” She curled her hands around her cup and lifted it to her lips, purple hair catching the light. Around them the Café Musain hummed pleasantly, but Courfeyrac didn’t take his usual comfort in the background noise. 

“It’s not you, specifically,” he said. “I’m going to talk to Jehan too.” 

“Why?” 

“I think I might be.” 

“What?” 

“Asexual.” 

She raised her eyebrows, but more in surprise than scepticism, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief when she didn’t immediately call him an idiot. “Why do you think that?” she asked instead, eyes narrowing slightly. 

“I’ve never wanted to fuck someone.” It felt strange to say, but maybe because that wasn’t entirely true. “I mean, I have, but…not straight off the bat? Not…oh fuck it, I don’t know.” He dropped his head into his hands and pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got no fucking clue, and it’s messing with my head.” 

“Huh.” Éponine took another sip of her latte. “I thought you liked sex.” 

“I do!” Courfeyrac lifted his head. “I mean, sometimes it’s really nice, y’know? But – okay, this is definitely true – I’ve never hooked up with someone just to sleep with them.” 

“Why do you hook up with them then?” Éponine sounded genuinely curious. “If not for sex?” 

“For the connection. For the closeness, really. The sex is incidental to that. It’s part of the package, but it’s not the whole point.” 

“Hm.” 

“What?” Courfeyrac stared at her, worried. 

“Well…” She took another sip and put it down carefully on the table. “Asexuality isn’t about sex. Not really.” 

“Right, it’s sexual attraction, R told me.” 

“Right. So, have you ever been sexually attracted to someone?” 

“I don’t know!” Courfeyrac wailed. “How do you tell?” 

Éponine laughed, not unkindly. “Well looking at someone and knowing whether or not you’d want to bang them based on their appearance is probably a good start.” 

“But isn’t sexual attraction about more than looks?” 

“Yeah, but let’s start off slowly.” 

“Okay. Well…” He looked around the Café. There were people who caught his eye, of course – there were always people who caught his eye. There was the bespectacled young man in the corner, reading a thick hardback book. The couple snuggled up together and making each other giggle made him smile. A black woman with long braids and brightly-coloured tights was on her phone, and as he watched, something she saw made a smile flit briefly across her face, lighting it up for just a second. 

“See anything you like?” Éponine asked slyly. 

“Yeah.” There was a plump girl huddled in a corner with her laptop, trying and failing to keep her expressions neutral, and a tattooed blonde boy who kept nodding off over his coffee. “But not like that. I want to meet them, get to know them a bit. Sleep with them if we feel like it, or if it goes in that direction, but…it’s never the reason. Except on really rare occasions, I guess.” 

“What do you do on those occasions?” she asked curiously. 

“When I just want to be physically close to someone, sleeping with them is the best way to do it,” Courfeyrac explained. “You can both pretend for a few hours, maybe the whole night, that…that I don’t know, that it’s real? Not just a random fling? Sometimes it’s nice to just be close to someone.” 

“How do you choose?” 

“Sometimes they choose me,” he grinned. “That’s always nice. But the other times…I don’t know, I go for whoever looks interesting. Someone fun, who’s in the mood for it.” 

“Not based on sexual attraction?” 

“Well, since I’m not actually sure anymore if I’ve ever _felt_ that anymore, I don’t know!” 

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve seen you so upset since the bisexual rant,” Éponine mused. 

“Don’t even get me started on that again,” he muttered. 

“You realise if you’re asexual, you’re not bisexual?” 

“But I’m attracted to men and women?” 

“Bi…romantic would be the term, I think? But I’d have to check with Jehan. He’s more into the labels.” 

Courfeyrac put his head down on the table and sighed. “This is so stupid. Nothing’s the _matter_ with me – why is this so crap?” 

“Identity crisis?” Éponine suggested, patting his hand. “Do you want a hug?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“You’re one of the cuddliest people I’ve ever met,” she snorted, pulling her chair around to sit next to him and giving him a reassuringly firm hug. “You’re like a koala bear, or one of those baby sloths who can’t survive without hugging their mothers.” 

“Have you seen the video of the baby sloths getting wrapped in bandages?” He brightened and drew away. 

Éponine laughed. “I don’t think so.” 

“You’d remember it if you had. Here.” He got his phone out and started loading it up. “It is so cute, you’ll fall off your chair, I swear to God…”

 

“They’re just words, right?” Feuilly argued. “The power given to labels comes from their associations, not the words themselves.” 

“Pity words are what we use to communicate and think, isn’t it?” Jehan said sarcastically, and Feuilly smiled, conceding the point. 

“Labels are only useful as long as they work in your favour,” Combeferre said firmly. “They can be helpful, but only to a point.” 

“In the end, isn’t everything very fluid anyway?” Feuilly looked back down at his laptop, where he was probably tweaking some tiny design flaw. For a guy who helped design and customise webpages, he was surprisingly non-geeky. “Everything on a spectrum.” 

“Not all the time,” Jehan shook his head. “What about people who genuinely are one hundred percent straight or gay?” 

“Show me these magical creatures!” Courfeyrac demanded, and Jehan snorted, pushing his head away. 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

“There are no truly clear-cut lines between types of attraction, is the problem, I think.” Combeferre leaned back in his chair and adjusted his glasses. 

“Examples,” Feuilly demanded mildly. 

“Having a friendship crush on someone,” Combeferre replied immediately. “You must know what I mean – meeting someone, or just seeing them or hearing them and knowing you want to be their friend.” 

“I totally get what you mean,” Courfeyrac nodded, slapping his shoulder. “That happens to me _all_ the time.” 

“But sometimes it’s accompanied by other attractions as well,” Combeferre continued. “To the unknown or the known, to the controversial, to whatever your mind perceives as interesting or engaging. To a pleasant voice or an attractive face.” 

“Enjolras.” Feuilly looked up from his laptop and nodded. “You’re talking about charisma.” 

“Maybe I am,” Combeferre shrugged. “But does charisma encompass everything I mean? See – labels and words are limiting.” 

“That’s why other languages are so fascinating,” Jehan insisted. “Like…oh, there was a wonderful word I found the other day…” He started rummaging in his bag for one of his many notebooks. “It was Arabic, and meant something along the lines of wanting to die before the person you love so you won’t have to live without them.” 

“That’s selfish,” Feuilly frowned. “What about them?” 

“Aha!” Jehan produced a little orange notebook triumphantly. “Don’t be such a downer, Feuilly. Here it is – ya’arburnee. Isn’t that lovely? But there’s no single word that encompasses that in French.” 

“Limited by language,” Combeferre nodded sagely. “Every tongue has its restrictions.” 

“Ooh, I like that,” Jehan muttered, mouthing Combeferre’s words to himself. “Mind if I use it?” 

“Not at all. Give me twenty percent of any profit, and it’s a deal.” 

“Ha ha,” Jehan swiped affectionately at his shoulder. 

“The point I originally wanted to get at,” Feuilly said, leaning closer to Courfeyrac, “is that labels are just words. One or two words can’t truly describe or explain the depth and complexity of the human condition, no matter which direction it leans in. Did the word ‘demisexual’ even exist ten years ago? Labels exist to serve the person, not the other way around.” 

Courfeyrac nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.” 

“Good.” Feuilly smiled. “Now here –” He tilted his laptop so Courfeyrac could see the screen. “Do these boxes need different coloured headers, do you think? Or do they stand out enough anyway?” 

 

Courfeyrac found Marius through Bossuet, who’d been outside for a smoke break and recognised him from a shared class. Courfeyrac came outside just as Marius admitted that he had a suitcase with him because he’d left home and had nowhere else to go. 

“Come to mine,” Courfeyrac suggested. “I’ve got a sofa bed. What was your name again?” 

“Marius,” he said, staring. “Marius Pontmercy. I…you want me to come to yours?” 

“Sure, why not? You’ve got nowhere else to go, have you?” 

“No.” 

“Well then.” Courfeyrac grinned and held out his hand for Marius to shake. “Bossuet knows you, and you look like a nice guy, if ridiculously tall.” 

“But you don’t know me at all,” Marius protested, Courfeyrac guessed more out of shock than genuine objection. 

“I’ll _get_ to know you. Come on – this way. Coming, Bossuet?” 

“No, I’m waiting for Joly.” 

“Give Chetta my love.” 

Bossuet laughed and waved them off, and Courfeyrac learned from Marius that he had been living with his grandfather, his mother being dead and his father having abandoned him. But then he had discovered that his father hadn’t abandoned him at all, and had in fact been forced away by his grandfather. And now his father was dead as well – cancer – and he’d never even had the chance to meet him properly. 

Courfeyrac’s heart ached for Marius, who seemed both dejected and fiercely determined. His grandfather was rich, but without him Marius was broke. More so even than Bossuet, who was constantly between jobs and couldn’t seem to hold down an apartment for more than a few months. 

Courfeyrac settled him on the sofa bed, assured him that he wasn’t expected to pay rent until he’d gotten himself sorted out, and promptly instigated a movie night. Marius adored kid’s movies as much as he did, and Courfeyrac admired his ability to laugh after everything he’d been through. On Wednesday, he invited him to the Corinthe to meet the others. 

“You’re a political group?” Marius asked curiously on the way there. 

“Sort of. We’re a minority rights group, so we kind of have to be political because politics affects what we do, you see? Everyone’s got their different preferences and opinions though.” 

“So why do you call yourselves the Friends of the ABC?” 

“Because we couldn’t fit all the other letters into a pleasing sound,” Courfeyrac grinned. “So we figured we’d say we represented every letter in the alphabet.” 

“Why not Friends of the Alphabet then?” 

“Well, firstly because that sounds ridiculous.” Marius laughed, nodding. “And secondly because ABC sound like abased. Never overestimate the power of a good pun, young Pontmercy.” 

Marius snorted. “Oh, never.” 

Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder and led him into the Corinthe with a smile, nodding pleasantly to Madame Hucheloup behind the bar. “Official meetings are here, but we meet fairly often at the Café Musain too. Bossuet!” he shouted as they emerged into the upstairs room, sweltering even with all the windows thrown open. “Look who I brought!” 

“Welcome to the wasp nest!” Bossuet called cheerfully to Marius, whose smile became a shade more nervous. 

“You’ll be fine,” Courfeyrac assured him, catching Enjolras’ curious eye. “This is Marius,” he told him. “A potential.” 

Enjolras gave Marius an analysing look when his back was turned and nodded. “Okay.” 

Marius was well-behaved for the majority of the evening, but something sparked him off towards the end, and Courfeyrac fell silent mid-conversation with Musichetta and Jehan to watch wide-eyed as Marius squared off against Enjolras. 

“You don’t agree on anything!” he cried. “None of you! You name all of these problems and condemn all of these people, but you can’t seem to agree on any solutions, or extend any of the mercy you insist everyone deserves. Why can’t you settle on something and agree on it?” 

“Because people don’t work like that,” Combeferre said cuttingly. “If everyone agreed, it would be easy.” 

“And God forbid you make things easier for yourselves,” Marius turned to him, scowling. 

Courfeyrac was simultaneously embarrassed on his behalf and impressed – he hadn’t expected Marius to have such a backbone. It seemed to wane after they left. Courfeyrac invited him out with him (Bahorel insisted on going to a club and Courfeyrac was more than happy to accompany him) but Marius elected to go back to the apartment instead. 

Next morning, Courfeyrac patted Marius’ gravity-defying bedhead and grinned. “So, coming to the next meeting?” 

Marius stared at him, looking strangely upset. “You want me to go back?” 

“Of course. I thought you did very well.” 

“They hated me.” 

“Rubbish. Enjolras and Combeferre are just the scariest to engage in a battle of wits and words, and you almost held your own against them for a second!” 

“But…” Marius sat up straighter and frowned unhappily. “It was confusing,” he said finally. “I thought you would be united on at least a few topics, but everyone had a different opinion and…it was so loud.” 

Courfeyrac grinned. “You should be there when Grantaire holds court. He wasn’t there last night. A pity, really – he would’ve taken your side purely for fun. You’ve got to come back, just to meet him.” 

Marius sighed. “I don’t know.” 

“Why wouldn’t you?” 

“I thought I had everything figured out,” Marius muttered. “After leaving my grandfather and rejecting all of his opinions, I thought I knew at least what was in my own head. Now I don’t know.” 

“That’s a good thing,” Courfeyrac insisted. “Out of uncertainty comes a need for certainty, and since the only way to become truly certain is to learn more about your own ideas, you’re in excellent company. Fluidity and a willingness to adapt are wonderful things, Marius! I must have changed my own opinions a dozen times since we started this society.” 

“We?” 

“Me, Enjolras, and Combeferre. We lived together while we were students. All of us have revised our stance on things since then. I mean, it wasn’t till Feuilly joined that we even started looking at the intersection of homelessness and being queer. Good thing he’s so tough, really – Enjolras practically monopolised him for the first few weeks.” 

“Why?” 

“Feuilly’s got first-hand experience with the care system and homelessness,” Courfeyrac explained. “And experience seeing the way the state deals with young queer and trans people. Enjolras wanted to know everything about it so he wouldn’t put his foot in his mouth by accident. You can’t speak about something with any authority unless you’ve done your research, after all.” 

Marius nodded slowly, lips still pursed. Courfeyrac reached over and gripped his wrist. 

“Come back. They don’t hate you, and they don’t hold grudges. Plus, I know you’ll get on with R.” 

“R?” 

“Grantaire.” 

Marius frowned, then snorted. “Never underestimate the power of a good pun?” 

“See?” Courfeyrac grinned. “Look how fast you learn!” 

 

Marius couldn’t come to any meetings anyway, it turned out, because he was working several jobs to try and save up enough money to get his own place, no matter how many times Courfeyrac assured him that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed. It was nice to live with someone again, and Marius eventually became accustomed enough to Courfeyrac’s occasional flings to not blush when he encountered them in the morning. He was good conversation too, when they had an evening together or an hour to spare here or there. Once he got over his shyness and uncertainty he was quite funny, and Courfeyrac genuinely found his earnest nature charming. 

He didn’t attend any more meetings, but he did grow confident enough to ask Courfeyrac about what they were working on and talking about, and Courfeyrac had always found that explaining his thoughts out loud helped to clarify them for himself. He also managed to help Marius get an internship in the overseas department of a publishing house, which was quite a success on both their parts, seeing as the job required Marius to know English and German, and he couldn’t string together a sentence in either. He started learning both frantically in what little spare time he had, and Courfeyrac tested him occasionally to keep him on his toes. 

Quite suddenly, Marius changed. He had always been a little distant, but out of the blue he became dreamy as well. He forgot to eat, and drifted off into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation. If Courfeyrac hadn’t been so amused, it might have irritated him, but it was impossible to be annoyed with someone as endearing as Marius. 

After Marius accidentally replied in German to an email Courfeyrac had sent him, Courfeyrac sat him down and demanded to know what was going on. “The mystery is killing me,” he declared. “Spit it out, Marius.” 

He didn’t expect Marius to drop his head into his hands and groan, but he took it in his stride and waited patiently for a reply. “Have you ever been in love?” 

Courfeyrac sat down and pushed down the urge to propose a toast. “Yes, and can I say how happy I am for you?” 

“Don’t be. I haven’t even spoken to her.” 

“Oh. Dare I ask how you’ve fallen in love with a woman you’ve never spoken to?” 

“I’m pathetic.” 

Courfeyrac pulled his chair closer to Marius’ and patted his shoulder. “Sometimes instant attraction happens, but I don’t think you can call it love until you at least know her name.” 

“I know her name,” Marius said miserably, not lifting his head. “It’s Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevent. She’s a financial assistant from another company, and she lives on her own, talks to her father practically every day, loves blueberries, has her coffee with cream and no sugar, runs a style blog, and wishes her apartment contract would let her have pets because she’d really like a hedgehog.” 

“A _hedgehog?_ ” 

“Apparently you can get them as pets,” Marius sighed, finally raising his head and pushing his long fingers through his already-messy hair. “She can talk for hours about the effect of the French Revolution on the world beyond France, and she knows everything about the clothes people wore in the Ancient Regime. She’s only here for the rest of the month, and after that I’ll probably never see her again.” 

“Does she know you exist?” 

“Yes. She remembers everyone’s names, but I can’t talk to her.” 

Courfeyrac patted his shoulder again. “Marius, for your own sake, you’ve got to ask her out.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Marius stared at him as if Courfeyrac had asked him to stamp on a kitten. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I _can’t_.” 

“The worst that can happen is that she’ll say no.” 

“Exactly.” Marius dropped his head back into his hands. “I’ve never felt this way before,” he mumbled. “It’s horrible.” 

Courfeyrac sighed. “Show me her blog then. I presume you’ve internet-stalked her to within an inch of your life?” 

“A bit,” Marius admitted. 

There was a photograph of Cosette in the top corner of her blog, and Courfeyrac nodded. “She’s very pretty.” 

“She’s exquisite,” Marius groaned. 

“And she’s demisexual?” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows as he read her tiny ‘about me’ section. 

“Yeah, I didn’t know what that meant before now.” 

“You’d know if you came to the meetings.” 

“If it was so vital, why haven’t you brought it up before now?” Marius challenged. 

“Hey, my sexuality isn’t your business unless you want it to be,” Courfeyrac retorted, giving him a wink and laughing at Marius’ shocked expression. 

“Wait, _you’re_ demisexual?” 

“No, I’m asexual, but they’re usually grouped together.” 

“Hang on, you can’t be asexual.” 

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Why not?” 

“Because…you know.” Marius looked away and blushed. “You’re always having sex.” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m sexually attracted to my partners,” Courfeyrac pointed out. Marius’ brow wrinkled, and Courfeyrac bumped their shoulders together companiably. “Don’t worry, I’m weird, I know.” 

“Why didn’t you say before?” 

“What, that I was an ace?” 

“Yeah.” 

Courfeyrac pushed his laptop away and put his elbows on the table. “It can be confusing, I guess. It was for me. Still is, if I think about it too much. And I’m not hugely into labels anyway.” 

“They can be helpful though, right?” Marius said. “When you read the definition of something and it just clicks and you know _that’s_ what you’ve been all along, and it’s such a relief to have it set out in an understandable way.” 

Courfeyrac turned to face him properly, and Marius looked away quickly. “Feeling the click with a particular label, Marius?” 

“Maybe.” Marius twisted his fingers together in his lap. 

“Sharing is caring. But you don’t have to,” he reassured him. “If you don’t want.” 

“No, I…” Marius looked up at Cosette’s blog. “I think I’m like Cosette. I think. I mean…when I researched it and found the definition…it just fit.” 

Courfeyrac smiled. “In a good way?” 

“I think so.” Marius glanced at him quickly, then away. “I mean, I’ve never…the whole…sex thing doesn’t really appeal unless I know someone properly. I always thought I was just odd, and it’s really horrible sometimes, feeling like that about your friends. Especially…especially when you’re as bad at making friends as I am.” 

Courfeyrac was _dying_ to ask whether Marius felt that way about him, but now was definitely not the right time to be teasing. “So demisexual feels right to you?” 

“Yeah, it does.” Marius sounded almost surprised, but he gave Courfeyrac a small smile. “It’s nice, knowing there’s a word for it, you know?” 

Courfeyrac nodded. “I can get that.” 

“But it means I definitely can’t ask Cosette out now.” Marius’ aggrieved expression returned. “I can’t tell her that _I’m_ …demisexual. It’d be weird! She’d think I was just trying some sort of trick or something, and she’d know I’d looked at her blog because she hasn’t mentioned it in the office, and I’ll look like a _complete_ stalker and even if she’d considered agreeing before she definitely wouldn’t then!” 

“Whoa, calm down.” Courfeyrac touched Marius’ arm. “You’re about to hyperventilate.” 

“I think she’s giving me heart palpitations,” Marius confessed, still looking very strung-out. 

“How about you focus on just asking her out for now?” Courfeyrac suggested. “Wait till she brings up her sexuality before you tell her yours.” 

“It’s funny how you assume she’d even say yes,” Marius laughed, sounding almost on the verge of tears. 

“Christ alive, why wouldn’t she?” Courfeyrac leaned forward and hugged Marius tight, rubbing soothing lines up and down his spine. “Relax, Marius. And don’t worry about the labels – they’re just labels.” 

“They’re important,” Marius said quietly as he drew away. 

“They’re only useful as long as they help you,” Courfeyrac told him firmly. “That’s why I don’t go around telling everyone I’m ace. Look at you – the first thing you did was say that I couldn’t be!” 

“I’m so sorry,” Marius said immediately, horrified, and Courfeyrac laughed to put him at ease. 

“Forget about it. The point is, people tend to have a certain idea of how a person relates to their designated labels, but people are more complicated than that. Frankly, I’m a pretty poor ace if you compare me to someone like Grantaire. He can’t stand even the idea of sex, but I actively pursue it when the fancy strikes me. I’m probably more gray-a than pure asexual if you get technical, but who cares? It’s all on a spectrum, you know? And at the end of the day, I am who I am, and if that’s confusing then…well, it’s not my fault, at any rate. A label is only any good as long as they help you – the second you start changing yourself to fit the label and check the boxes, it’s not worth your time. 

“Anyway, all of that is beside the point.” He waved a hand and gave Marius a serious look. “The real point I wanted to get at is that before you start thinking about the revealing of personal information to her, you’ve got to gird your loins and actually ask this girl out.” 

“I can’t!” Marius shook his head. “You don’t understand; I’ve never asked anyone out before, and she’s too important to risk messing this up on!” 

“Marius, you either pluck up the courage to ask her out, or spend a significantly long time regretting not having done so. The sting of rejection lasts but a few short weeks at most – the pain of regret could potentially last a lifetime.” 

“I think I might actually die.” 

“Don’t be an idiot. You can practise on me!” 

“I can’t do this.” 

“Yes you can,” Courfeyrac insisted stubbornly, getting to his feet and pulling Marius up as well. “We’re going to rehearse a few opening scenarios to actually get you talking, and we’ll work up to the whole ‘asking out’ thing slowly. You said she leaves at the end of the month?” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent. That gives us about a week and a half to get fate on your side.” 

 

Jehan: Are you in? 

Courfeyrac: For you? Always. ;) 

Jehan: Can I come over? 

Courfeyrac: Of course. 

“You know you don’t have to ask permission to come over, right?” Courfeyrac said wryly when he opened the door. “If I’m in, the door’s open.” Jehan shrugged one listless shoulder, lips twitching in a terrible excuse for a smile, and Courfeyrac stood back to let him in and opened an arm in invitation. Jehan walked into him with an explosive sigh, wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac’s middle and dropping his head onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

Courfeyrac kicked the door shut and hugged Jehan tightly, closing his eyes and relaxing into it. It stretched out past the point people usually drew away and Courfeyrac planted his feet a little firmer and rubbed a palm down Jehan’s back. Sometimes people _needed_ a bit of kind human contact, and Courfeyrac was always ready to give it. 

“Rough day?” he asked. 

Jehan sighed again. “Like a Sunday.” 

Melancholy Sundays, Jehan called them. Waking up and feeling low for no particular reason. Usually he embraced them, content to wallow in it while it lasted. Courfeyrac didn’t understand what was nice about putting on sad music and moping about all day, but Jehan had told him that he came out of it refreshed, like a detox. “You can’t be happy all the time,” he’d insisted once. 

“Watch me,” Courfeyrac had grinned back. 

In the present, he just hummed sympathetically. Jehan wouldn’t have come to him if he wanted to stay sad, after all. “You want to watch a movie or something? Go out?” 

“No.” Jehan relaxed his hold on Courfeyrac, but didn’t step back to look him in the eye. “Can we stay here?” 

“Sure.” 

“Can I…this might sound weird?” 

Courfeyrac chuckled against Jehan’s hair. “Go on.” 

“Can we lie down? And just…lie down?” 

Courfeyrac curbed the instinct to tease and just nodded, stepping back and smiling. “Sure. I never turn down a friendly snuggle.” 

Jehan smiled self-consciously and followed him into the bedroom. Courfeyrac flopped down on the unmade bed and reminded himself that he didn’t need to wiggle his eyebrows and flirt – Jehan wouldn’t appreciate it right now. Not that he appreciated it much anyway. 

Jehan hesitated at the foot of the bed, toeing off his shoes with an uncharacteristically uncertain expression. “You’ll tell me if this is weird, right?” 

“You can count on me.” 

“Okay.” Jehan avoided his eyes as he pulled his hideous purple cardigan off and climbed onto the bed, pulling the duvet up over them and lying on his back. Courfeyrac lay next to him, corpse-like, and stifled a smile. There was a pause, and then Jehan sat up slightly, grabbed Courfeyrac’s wrist, and tugged him over to lie on his side, manoeuvring him into being the big spoon. 

“How long has it been Sunday?” Courfeyrac asked, more to break the silence than anything else. He held his breath as Jehan shifted back into him, pressing their bodies together and pulling Courfeyrac’s arm further over his side. Courfeyrac’s chin fit perfectly between Jehan’s shoulder blades if he lifted his head a little, the tip of his nose against the back of Jehan’s neck. To avoid suffocation by (admittedly lovely and sweet-smelling) hair, he had to tilt his head back a little on the pillow. 

Jehan sighed. “Only a couple of days. But it feels more unpleasant this time.” 

“Your hair is in my face.” Courfeyrac said apologetically. 

“Sorry.” Jehan pulled it under his neck, out of the way, and Courfeyrac relaxed properly. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“Be happy all the time? Don’t you ever get down?” 

“Sure I do.” Courfeyrac snuggled a little closer and smiled when Jehan made a contented sound. “But I know how to cheer myself up, so I do.” 

“I’ve never seen you upset.” 

“That’s because I’m always on my own when I get sad.” 

“You’re never unhappy around other people?” 

“Not if they’re my friends.” 

Jehan fell silent for a while, and Courfeyrac dozed. It was lovely, actually, just lying in bed with someone else, all warm and peaceful. He was almost asleep when Jehan spoke again. “Can we do this sometimes?” 

Courfeyrac made a sleepy noise. “What, cuddle?” 

“Yeah. It’s nice, not having any pressure.” 

Courfeyrac smiled and squeezed him for a moment. “Whenever you like.” 

Jehan huffed a little laugh. “What about if you’re going out with someone at the time?” 

“They’ll have to suck it up. What would they even have to worry about? Neither of us is going to do anything.” 

“People are stupid though,” Jehan sighed, and Courfeyrac suddenly remembered that he’d mentioned going on a date last week. 

“Does this have anything to do with whatshisface you were going to meet for coffee?” 

“ _Her_ name was Floriane,” Jehan said quietly. “And…maybe. I thought…I mean, we’d talked loads about the sensual opposed to the sexual in love poetry and I _told_ her I was asexual, but I…” He curled up a little, back curving against Courfeyrac’s chest. “I really liked her,” he murmured. “I still really like her. I just don’t…we’d _talked_ about it; I don’t know why she didn’t…I don’t know, she kissed me and we went out and she just, she was all over me and I just wanted her to stop and start talking again. I just wanted to love her, you know? She has this cat called Casper because he’s all white and she knew who André Chénier was before I started babbling about him and she has Onegin in the original Russian and it’s just not _fair_.” He sucked in a shuddery breath and went on in a quieter tone. “She had condoms and said she just wanted to try. It’s not fair. I _told_ her that’s not what I wanted.” 

Courfeyrac pressed his face against the back of Jehan’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry, Jehan.” 

“I think I’m in love with her,” Jehan whispered, and Courfeyrac realised with a horrible wrench that he was crying. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. Jehan sniffed and shook his head. 

“I’ll be fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump on you.” 

Courfeyrac nuzzled the space between Jehan’s shoulder blades. “You should always dump on me, flower-face.” He paused. “Obviously not in an actual pooping sense.” 

Jehan laughed. It was watery, but it was still a laugh. “You’re such an idiot.” 

Courfeyrac grinned. “I do my best. You wanna watch movies and drink copious amounts of hot chocolate liberally laced with the booze of your choice?” 

“Can we invite Grantaire?” 

“I was literally just about to say we should invite Grantaire.” 

Jehan rolled over and kissed the tip of Courfeyrac’s nose. “I love you.” 

Courfeyrac kissed his and beamed. “I love you too. You call R, I’ll go find a movie.” 

 

“It’s in my eye!” Bossuet shrieked, one arm flailing about wildly while the rest of his body froze in place. “It’s in my eye, in my _eye,_ someone DO SOMETHING!” 

Courfeyrac could hardly breathe for laughing, and he wasn’t the only one – Feuilly was the only person in the room currently able to even approach Bossuet to help him get whatever small insect had flown into his face out of his eye. “Stay still!” he chuckled. 

“I’M A FUCKING STATUE!” Bossuet screamed, and Joly _howled_ , actually crying with laughter. “Fuck, get it out, get it out!” 

“Don’t blink!” Feuilly warned, fingers hovering over Bossuet’s eye. 

“The angels have the phonebox!” Bahorel shouted, and Courfeyrac put an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and cackled into his neck. 

“Stay still!” Feuilly yelled. 

“GET IT OUT!” Bossuet screeched, arms windmilling dangerously. 

“I CAN’T IT OUT IF YOU DON’T STAY STILL!” Feuilly bellowed, and Joly slid out of his chair, laughing so hard he wasn’t actually making any noise. “SOMEONE GRAB HIS ARMS!” 

“GET IT OUT! I THINK IT’S _MOVING!_ ” 

Grantaire managed to regain enough composure to wrap one arm around Bossuet’s torso and upper arms and held his head still with his other hand. “Go!” 

Feuilly darted in and Bossuet’s scream reached an abnormally high pitch before abating into heavy breathing. “Got it!” Feuilly held his hand up triumphantly. Whatever had flown into Bossuet’s eye was so small Courfeyrac couldn’t even see it from this distance.

“Can we assume the meeting’s over?” he snickered against Enjolras’ shoulder. 

Enjolras nodded, grinning. “Shouldn’t someone check Joly’s still breathing?” 

As they left, Joly still dissolving into helpless giggles every few seconds and Bossuet holding up well under the good-natured teasing, Courfeyrac bumped his forehead against Jehan’s shoulder blade. “Hey, you busy tonight?” 

Jehan pursed his lips. “Depends, what’re you thinking?” 

“Well _I’m_ thinking of going out tonight, but I wondered if you wanted to meet Cosette.” 

“And Cosette is…?” 

“Marius’ new girlfriend,” Courfeyrac grinned. “I told you, remember?” 

“Oh yeah, the fashion blogger?” 

“Yeah. I think you’d like her.” 

Jehan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

“Definitely. Trust my judgement, Jehan,” he crooned. “Come meet the star-crossed lovers. They’re adorable, actually – you’d love it for that alone.” 

Jehan smiled. “That so?” 

“You know those couples on TV and in movies who are just instantly compatible, and you want them to stay together forever and have adorable babies and just be happy for the rest of their lives? Marius and Cosette are like a real-life version of that with even more cute. The _height difference_ , Jehan, you don’t understand. I have to scream into a pillow sometimes to express my feelings.” 

Jehan laughed. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.” 

“Awesome. We’ll make a thing of it before I go out! Hey, Chetta! Bossuet!” They turned around, Joly with them. “Pre-drinks at mine?” 

Musichetta nodded. “I’ll pop home to get changed first,” she said, looking at her boyfriends. “Meet you there?” 

Bossuet nodded and Joly pecked her cheek. 

Marius and Cosette were in the kitchen when Courfeyrac burst in, a bottle of wine in each hand. “Darlings!” he cried. “Meet Jehan the poet. Also Joly and Bossuet, but they don’t matter.” 

“I resent that,” Bossuet said dryly as Jehan slipped past Courfeyrac to kiss Cosette’s hand and Marius’ cheek, whispering something presumably congratulatory in his ear. 

“Courfeyrac told me you guys met at work,” Jehan pulled a stool over and grinned at them. “Tell me _everything_.” 

“He’s an incorrigible romantic,” Courfeyrac told them. “Marius, pass me a few glasses? You guys want a drink?” 

Musichetta arrived in a sparkly dress that immediately caught Cosette’s attention, and before they left, Jehan grabbed Courfeyrac’s shoulder and whispered urgently in his ear, “I’m in love, how did you know this would happen?” 

Courfeyrac grinned. “Because you love love and no one’s more in love at the moment than those two.” 

“And they’re _both_ demisexual? What’re the chances?” 

“Slim to none, and therefore even more magical, am I right?” He kissed Jehan’s cheek and hugged him quickly. “See you later, buttercup.” 

“Have fun!” 

Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows, halfway out the door. “I intend to.” 

On the way to the métro, he walked with his arms around Joly and Musichetta, Bossuet on Musichetta’s other side, and they all tried tipsily to synchronise their steps and stop each other falling over. The sequins of Musichetta’s dress were hard against Courfeyrac’s palm, the smell of Joly’s aftershave accompanying the warm arm wrapped around his waist. On the train, they occupied two seats; Musichetta in Joly’s lap, Courfeyrac in Bossuet’s, laughing at the way Joly kept remembering Bossuet’s mishap in the meeting and breaking into giggles. 

They met Grantaire, Éponine, and Bahorel at a station further down the line and Courfeyrac got Bahorel to give him a piggy-back when they emerged onto the street, challenging Grantaire and Éponine to a race. They almost fell over running down a slight hill, Joly shouting warnings after them, but Bahorel managed to keep his balance and Courfeyrac managed to not strangle him, so they were okay. 

“Tell me these aren’t the best days of our lives,” Courfeyrac said, pulling Grantaire against him and laughing as Musichetta almost tripped in her high heels and shouted, “I saved it!” triumphantly. 

“Why would you _not_ want these to be the best days of our lives?” Grantaire asked, amused. 

“Because that means nothing will get better after this, and I want things to keep getting better!” 

Grantaire snorted. “Calm down, Dan Savage.” Courfeyrac huffed and stuck his tongue in Grantaire’s ear purely to watch him recoil with a cry of horror. “ _Why?_ Urgh, you bastard!” 

Courfeyrac struck a pose and took a bow. “I am cruel, yet you love me. Who am I?” 

“A pain in my ass,” Grantaire grumbled, wrinkling his nose as he pulled his sleeve over his finger and stuck it in his ear. “You owe me a drink.” 

“You owe me a dance,” Courfeyrac retorted, as if that hadn’t been part of the plan all along. Once inside, he did buy a shot for each of them, and led the way out onto the dance floor. There were times when he just felt a need for this – for unashamedly upbeat music so loud he couldn’t hear anything else, the heat of an underground room packed to the walls with people, alcohol loosening his admittedly already loose inhibitions and making him throw his head back with abandon, grinning and sweaty. 

He wasn’t looking to pull tonight. He just wanted to dance until he was exhausted and walk back to Grantaire’s, possibly with the other three to share a joint or two, all of them leaning against each other and laughing, the cool air refreshing on their hot skin. He and Grantaire would share the bed, curled up like cats, Grantaire finally giving into the urge for a good cuddle. 

“The best days of our lives so far, at least,” Grantaire mumbled against his shoulder later, the two of them spooning just like Courfeyrac had predicted. 

Courfeyrac smiled with his eyes closed. “Can’t disagree with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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